Scattered memories
by Not a sexual predator
Summary: Always one step behind, you follow the Chosen Undead. Regardless of your reason, you are never successful. All you see is embers in the fireplace, long-finished battles, and the trail of messages he leaves behind - perhaps for you, or perhaps for himself.
1. Undead Asylum (1)

[Deep within the dungeons, between cells and bars, between darkness and the faint light that manages to filter through the thick clouds up below, lies a small parchment. Written with small, almost diminute letters, in a caligraphy that is both somewhat absent as it is immersive when it meets the eye, the time it had lied there was probably the reason why the few eyes that manage to graze upon it must do so with perusal, for they had became almost indistinct from the withering paper. If one has patience, finally the message can be read.]

_There used to be a time when I sang to the nothingness. There used to be a time when I danced for nobody. There used to be a time when I cried for myself. I do not remember them, no, and I lack the proof I'd gladly accept in order to confirm those apparently nonexistent times. But, there is a glimpse of evidence that I am not merely imagining any of it, that I am not merely trying to give sense to this now void existence of mine: I remember how I felt._

_Yes, I do remember that. I doubt I'd ever forget such feeling. I may not recall when my throat ached from singing, when my mind blurred when I spun to the compass of a slow-paced serenade, nor how my cheeks grew damp trails after the passing of my tears. But, instead, I recall perfectly how I joyful I felt when my voice overcame the singing of the birds, I recall how passion filled every single mote of my body as I spun and jumped, and I recall how battered I felt after tasting the salted tears that escaped my eyes. I doubt I'll ever forget that._

_Sometimes, when I look at this, my cell, I do want to forget them. I want to forget that I experienced something so beautiful, so intense and so... pure, yes, that is the word. If I forget, will I be able to finally forget about this pain? The pain of being imprisoned here, all alone, of hearing the writhes of all those other souls that had lost themselves to solitude when I am, as I believe, the only one who remains remotely sane. That pain, yes, that I what I wish to finally let go of my existence._

_I doubt I will ever see the Sun again, as my cell and the ironic bared window that decorates it does not allow me, ever, to glance at it. I doubt I will ever escape, that I will dent this armor of mine in service, or in duty._

_But I still hope. I am a hypocrite. I wish to forget and to let go of the grim thoughts I hold on to, for they are the only thing I remember, but I secretly wish to break free and finally remember again. _

_Isn't time supposed to make us forget?_

**_Isn't time going to make me forget?_**


	2. Undead Asylum (2)

[Outside the walls, up the ancient steps, towards the dim light that filters through the grey skies, lies a helmet by a cliff. The helmet itself, rusted by age, yet unhindered by scratches nor dents, presents a, perhaps nostalgic, nostalgic fashion proper of now extinct times when silver and gold flowed in abundance, before hope and death became the most valuable ideas in people's minds. It's hollow visor gazes towards the horizon, towards the nothingness of the empty abyss before it, almost in a poetic stare at the future. At least, if one were prone to sentimentalism. The curious, whom indeed would not question such powerful need to inspect the antique, would encounter yet another parchment, yet this one almost of none resemblance of the one found deep within the dungeons as ink flowed freely inside it, with proper spacing, written with paused and steady hands, yet the same air of melancholy as the previously encountered script.]

_**Ten thousand eight-hundred seventy-one.**_

_Ironic how, when I stared below, my fear invented such number to represent itself on a logical way. Yes, that is the number. I do not know what it means, if it's the distance from here to the bottom, the steps I've taken to reach the cliff, the number of breaths I had remaining, or perhaps the amount of days I've remained between the four walls of the now overdue cell. I do not know, and I certainly do not wish to._

_Why? It is clear. Because I, of all others, have escaped. I have escaped! I have slapped myself numerous times, pitched my cheek and bit my tongue to reassure myself that this is not just another dream, yet I have failed. I am, indeed, free. It's curious how, after wishing to finally escape that which was my imprisonment for years, for decades and possibly for a whole eternity as it was for myself, I am now scared and paralyzed. Curious, indeed, how I never imagined what I would do right this very second, but instead imagined myself surrounded with a family that may or may not be something I have had, how I felt once again the rain against my flesh as I may or may not have felt, or how I would quickly forget about this nightmarish stage of my life as I may or may not have lived..._

_But I never imagined that I would simply deafen. I never imagined the skies to be ashen, bitter and morose as they are now, instead of clear and blue as I wish to remember them. I never imagined the breeze that filters past this helmet that served as my identity as a man to be so cold instead of the warmth I thought it would give me. And, I certainly did not imagine my very knees would crumble me to the cold stone when I finally set foot outside –that-. –That-, which awaits behind me with an open mouth. –That-, yes, which had swallowed me for who knows how long, that has kept me secluded from the world, from myself, and from the warmth with tall walls and hard bars._

_I am afraid to look back, to gaze unto the edifice that held me prisoner, that erased most of the memory I held, that holds the desperate cries and wails of thousands of beings like myself, whom had clearly let go of their past and died to become empty and broken. Lucky them, I'll admit._

_But –that- is behind me, yes. And so are the acts I have had to commit to fight my way past the gates that finally opened for me. And so is the one humble enough to lend a hand to a forgotten being such as myself, to share a key, to share a few words for me. Let him rest there, let him die, let his prophecy wither with time and his words echo across the empty skulls of those who came before him. Let my past also vanish, let it fade in the darkness. I want to leave them here, indeed, for they are a heavy burden. Their weight had increased with every step I've taken outside my cell, my place, for they seemed to come back with my sweat, the same way my hands recalled the motion used to claim a life, the same way my face contorts when my image is the last I see reflect in the lifeless orbs of my victims. I pity myself more than I pity them._

_I write this in tears, as my reaction to freedom is the exact same one as a long forgotten childhood memory. I remember I had a small bird in a cage – pretty much as I was not so long ago. I do not remember a name, a shape, a color, but I do remember it was indeed a bird. One day, I had discovered the bird had escaped, perhaps after I failed to lock him back inside, perhaps after it carved a hole between the bars, or perhaps due to a third member aiding him. I do not know, I do not remember. But I remember I did feel joy, and sadness, as I watched the only feather remaining in the cage._

_I want this helmet of mine to be my feather. I want this parchment to be part of my burden. For I feel joy, eternal happiness, as I finally feel the breeze on my features, and as I struggle to decide if either to scream to the skies or fall to the ground, if either to stand up proud or to give up and hurl myself into the abyss. But I also feel sadness, for I fear that I will possibly not leave a name to be remembered with, I fear that I will not be able to forget now that I am not in chains, and that I will have to remember more, and more about someone I used to be so long in a distant past._

_Perhaps I should have never left my cell._


	3. Firelink Shrine (1)

[The bonfire was cold already. The embers of the fire that one roared with pride in the night sky had gone extinct, silent and forgotten. Yet, even if the darkness was all around the ruined surroundings, there was a beckon, an invisible lighthouse or a metaphorical string that pulled you towards the somewhat cozy spot that held heat and light not so long ago. But, as you approach, you can notice a certain silhouette laying nearby, almost peacefully, apparently an armored man in deep sleep. It was a hollow, but nothing more than a cold and rotten corpse wrapped in layers of metal, characteristics you may notice as the fire slowly rises. And, as light finally returns, if not a bit dimly, you notice the edge of a parchment sticking out of the defeated undead's mouth. Those bold enough to inspect such detail closely will encounter yet another sample of that known calligraphy and format, the same ink and the same thoughts behind it. The same simplicity of thought, too, as you begin to read through the scripture, whilst the distorted shape of a long dead tree hangs nearby to haunt perhaps those whom feel watched in the omnipotent darkness.]

_I had a bird once, when I was but a child._ _I cannot remember if it was a gift to me, from my parents perhaps, from a friend or from a stranger, nor if I captured it when it was free, if I raised it when it was but an egg. Yet I remember it was the most beautiful being I had seen. It's feathers were golden, gleaming so bright that I could not help but to stare at it for hours, through the day and through the night. I never knew what type of bird it was, but I always thought it was a raven. Perhaps it was those bright, intense red eyes what made me believe that, for whenever I felt its eyes on mine I cowered and looked away, slowly marched out of the room, shut the door and returned some time later. Whenever it looked at me, it kept its gaze fixed with such force that even my body was shocked. But I kept it, for a while, as I was enchanted by those golden feathers, the same way I was terrified of those red globes._

_It was calm – most of the times. Without warning, without reason, sometimes it would start chirping hysterically, flying in its cage only to violently slam itself against the iron bars. Few times I was a witness of such behaviour, but I always found either red stains on his plumage, or I'd simply find the broken feathers lying around the cage. I started to worry, of course, for I considered that bird my treasure, something unique forged exclusively for me. It was like my crown, which made me a king. But after its revolts, it returned to that omnipresent peace it displayed most of the times. That serenity... I doubt I will ever forget it. How it looked outside the window, how it opened its wings for the breeze that swayed its cage, how even its beak was left agape to savour the essence of freedom that came and go as it pleased. _

_Some time later, either weeks or years, the bird was no longer graced with that beauty, as it chaste golden feathers had became scarce, and its flesh was scarred and wounded from so many futile attempts to break free. Not only I did not find any more liking in such creature, nor in it's previously elevating presence, but I also remember started to feel it's melancholy as, through most days, it watched the outside world with its usual pose. I began to imagine it did not want to live the rest of its days in my cage, in my domain. I began to imagine how I would feel if I was to be tortured with a life I would never experience if I was to remain but a mere witness, secluded between bars. So I set it free, thinking that it'd stop hurting itself, that it'd halt it's violence as it was once again reunited with its natural home. Or, perhaps, that it'd learn to live normally after some time._

_But I was wrong. As soon as I opened it's cage outside my window, the shabby bird flew out with a battle-cry, struggling to fly at first but quickly adjusting. I thought it would be happy, joyful, or at least thankful for being set free, as I watched outside my window, but I never imagined that it's time spent in my cage had turned that joy, that longing of freedom, that wish of happiness into hatred and rage. I remember how it's first objective was another bird, a dove perhaps, a magpie maybe, and how it's beak punctured through that innocent creature's neck until it was nothing but a falling corpse. And so, I lost his sight in the horizon, as it flew enraged, as it landed from nest to nest, spilling blood, breaking eggs. But, some nights, when I woke for no reason amidst the night, I can remember those pure red eyes staring at me from the window, and I was even more horrified than I was before._

_I never named that bird, nor I ever knew if it was male or female. I never touched its plumage. I never dared to seek its gaze, to try to understand what the message inside them was. And I regret it since. Now, I believe I am that bird. My cage, which I belive was my prison cell, perhaps my past, or perhaps my helm, is long behind me. I do not wish to cause harm, I do not wish to bring tears to anyone as that bird brought to me. I wish to fly away, to find that stream that will bring me to harmony, to distant lands that can bring joy, to company that can arise a smile in my lips._

_Even now, after all these years, I think those red eyes watch me from the distance. I cower, I hug my legs and bury my head, but I cannot help but to fear these hands of mine. These hands, whom once desired to hold something precious in them, yet only brought decay and ugliness, only to create a monster. _

_Have my hands changed? Can they create something beautiful from scratch? Could they return the golden feathers to a monster?_


	4. Undead Burg (1)

[Night was soon to come, the last rays of sunlight grazing the grey stone of the deserted city with its morose presence. The cries of hollows howl from the castle, from its houses, perhaps in joy as darkness and night was perhaps what they seek, what they need to be forsaken forever. Some of them can be seen in the colossal walls that once protected them, their thin frames gazing into the fading light - to watch die the last memory of a long lost hope. Yet the embers welcome you ahead, like a beacon awaiting you with a kind promise of heat, of reward and accomplishment in contrast of the despair of the cunning city. As you approach, you witness cloths and furs, which despite being ancient, have been gathered together to form a welcoming space for enjoyment in front of the lit bonfire, which only grows brighter as you approach. Atop the furs, you find a carefully folded parchment.]

_For me, to be a man has always meant to be true to myself. It's curious, but I cannot remember anyone ever teaching me such an important lesson. I can only assume it was my own life, my own steps, what had given meaning to the word nobody exists to use anymore. The word 'truth' itself inspires me, fills me with ambition and joy, for it's a pure word. No matter how much you say it, claim it, or beg it, the truth is never moved, tainted, or destroyed. Truth is eternal, even if there is no one to know it, or spread it. Truth is infinite, and being able to tell myself that, for once, I have reached into the beyond in order to satisfy myself is… wondrous._

_I have always pictured truth lies (in my mind, that is) in a large, infinite forest, where trees reach up above the skies and go on and on forever, where their leaves block light, and where their roots scar the soil below. In that cold forest, where no man would dare venture, lies a single match that, once lit, can burn down those trees and bring down the heat and warmth once again. That once the forest burns down, there will only be an infinite plain bathed by the golden lights that go on forever and forever. It's curious, for me, that I have fantasized in my life of finding that match, so I can bathe in the joy and happiness for eternity._

_But for a man to find truth, he needs faith. Faith that keeps his steps firm and steady in those chasms torn by the roots, faith that warms up his cold hands in the ice, faith that keeps his head up despite the repetitive landscape everywhere he looks._

_Sometimes, I even fantasize about finding someone else in that very same forest, someone that shares the desperate quest for answers, but that instead of finding oneself, we find each-other. I like fantasizing about it, indeed._

_Still, the world never makes it easy to find truth. Sometimes, cobwebs of lies halt you, force you to turn around and try another path, force you to simply give up, or force you to fight through the spiders that deceive you. Sometimes, you carry far too much burdens with you, be it your memories, your family, your fear. And I must admit, to myself, that I carry many burdens into that forest._

_Since whenever I have discovered my meaning of what a man is, I have always fought to be true to myself, as that is the best any man can hope to achieve. No man can bring the truth in another man, but merely hope to inspire him to seek it on his own._

_Yet I must confess, that I too am a coward. I would never enter that forest, for I am scared and terrified of the torn ground, of the cold, of the despair I'd find inside. I do not carry many burdens, regrets being what I carry in my pocket, yet faith is something I have simply forgotten, or perhaps never felt._

_And now, as I face the fire that was started with a mere match, as I feel how these buildings become as large as the infinite trees of the infinite forest, I sit and I wonder. I wonder, and I dream of faith being the one looking for me in the endless forest._

_What a curious thing is to be a man, indeed._


	5. Undead Parish (1)

[You advance through the debris of the fallen city without resistance. Nothing stands in your way but the corpses of those slayed husks that once walked the same path you do now, whom had fallen not too long ago by, possibly, the one you seem to follow. The path seems clear to you, perhaps out of instinct choosing the path clear for your advance. Soon, you find yourself on top of the city walls, whom are even in worst shape than the city below. Advancing, soon you'd find yourself on a bridge, whom had suffered terrible burns from an unknown source, yet as you touch it, you find none of the heat that scarred the cobblestone below. At the end, lies a bonfire, as lonesome as the previous, yet without any kind of accomodations to welcome your morning… but a single scroll of parchment carefully wrapped nearby.]

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><p><em>I am growing weak each step I give forth, that I've come to realize as I walk each day and each night in my short sojourn. True, my arms have never felt stronger, my feet have never been so confident, my eyes have never been sharper… but my mind is simply starting to fail me. And it's not a disease, it's not hunger nor thirst, not even pain. No… it's solitude. It's the solitude of being able to smile of my accomplishments yet without anyone to see it, it's the solitude of laughing at my mistakes without anyone to hear it, it's the solitude of falling without anyone to kneel beside me. It's like an itch that overcomes me whenever I halt to catch my breath, to rest or simply to stare at the cemetery I am bound to walk upon. And, no matter how hard I scratch or try to simply forget about it, the more intense it becomes.<em>

_Can a man die of solitude? I am beginning to fear the possibility. Some time ago I would have laughed at the very thought, shaken my head and laughed again! Perhaps when I was on my cell I would have thought about it, yet I've come to realize it's completely different. For when I was in my cell, I was hoping to die, and now that I have found a glimpse of myself that wishes to live, I fear it. It'd describe it as the difference between being hungry when you are being punished, or when you're hungry when you are unable to catch anything when you hunt. Yet, this time, I am a hunger with no tongue, whom is unable to catch glimpse of a man, of a woman, or even an ear to hear me out._

_**Find me! Seek me! Talk to me!**_

_I scream those words at the skies for someone to hear them, for someone to be merciful enough to share a few words with me. I don't expect anyone to become my friend, for I am a man made only for himself, yet not for that reason I wish to scare anyone. Let's talk about the weather, about how beautiful this city must have been, how proud we are of the armor we bear, how scared we are of losing our blades. Jest with me, amuse me, make me laugh or make me cry, hurt me or heal me, yet please, share a few words with me even if they are of hatred._

_I ache of green lands, of endless grass, of endless light and endless days. I wish to hold someone in my hands, in my arms, in my lips. I ache to forget the sound of my footsteps, the sound of my breathing, and only wish to hear my heartbeats dancing with someone else's. I wish for rain to fall, to rejoice in the cold embrace of fall, to spin and sing and dance and live. I wish to smile and laugh, to cry and weep, to sleep and dream. Much like I dream now._

_Yet there is nobody to share the journey with me, nobody to follow me or point me in the right direction. For every step I take leads to a crossroad, with infinite roads opening from it, and each one of it leading to more crossroads and more uncertainty. I do not know what I do wrong, but I doubt my choices more and more often. I grow weaker every step…_

_But, as I usually find myself believing, I am not alone. I am certain that, somewhere, along the road, there is someone aching for company as much as I do. Perhaps we never meet, perhaps we never see, or never speak. But it's the certainty that I am not alone what pushes me onward, step by step, day by day, to keep my eyes open for him. For her. For whatever needs healing as much as I need._

_Maybe I am being a bit too dramatic, it's true. Maybe I am being foolish, as well. But I am alone, and I am to be judged by nobody, for there is nobody there. When I look over my shoulder, there is nobody behind me. When I look forth, there is nothing but another enemy to defeat and forget. Perhaps that is what made this city fall once to the despair, the fact that there was nobody to look after it, to keep company to the tall walls, to polish the stones as if polishing armor._

_I laugh and I cry in moment like these, when I simply sit down and write what roams my mind. It's one of the few moments that remind me I exist, that I am not a blind ghost, that I am not a failure. Each time I leave, I am tempted to burn the proof of my thoughts, of my feelings. But I know I am not that strong, for I know one day I may be forced to turn around and seek those old forgotten thoughts, which I'll read as if written by someone else, someone as lonely as me._

_I laugh and I cry as I sit, and I grow weak every step I take. But still I ache, and still I wait._

_**Both to me, and to you, I say this; find me, seek me, talk to me. Whatever it is you wish to do afterwards, that is only your choice**._

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><p><strong>Quick author note<strong>: As Solaire of Astora well said in our first encounter:

_"We are amidst strange beings, in a strange land._ _The flow of time itself is convoluted; with heroes centuries old phasing in and out._ _The very fabric wavers, and relations shift and obscure._ _There's no telling how much longer your world and mine will remain in contact."_

And so, from now on, I will gladly be accepting roleplays, encounters, crossovers with your own Dark Souls stories or simply with your ideas - as long as it includes your character. Mind that your character **must** be yours, not an NPC present in the game. Feel free to PM me for more information, doubts, or ideas. This is the first and last note I will ever include.


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